Confess
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: Prompted by the poem, "8 Ways to Say I Love You" by R. McKinley. One-shots of eight different FMA couples, and at the crux of their relationship, the confession that changes everything.
1. Chapter 1

_Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it._

* * *

"You'll be able to make it back okay, Roy Boy?"

Madame Christmas had at least six heads when he lifted his gaze from the bottom of his glass, and each of her faces was wearing the same expression of motherly concern.

He tapped a finger against the side of the glass.

"One for the road?" he slurred, then snorted at how stupid his voice sounded. The empty glass slid away from him, directed by a firm hand, and then he was being helped to his feet, his coat finding its way up his shoulders.

"Thanks, Vanessa," he heard Christmas' voice from far away.

He knew he was a sorry sight, and he suddenly felt the need to get out of there as quickly as possible.

"I'm just gonna—"

He took a wobbling step away from the bar, and shook off the hands that were still trying to steady him.

"I…have to make a call," deliberately articulating each word so he would be understood.

"One of us can call someone to come get you," Vanessa's voice offered to his right.

"No…"

He patted her fingers clumsily, and staggered towards the phone at the back of the building. He fed the machine, impatiently jamming the coins into the slot, and dialed a familiar number.

At the moment, he was too damn drunk to feel guilty that this wasn't the first time she'd seen him like this.

The buzzing lasted way too long. She was probably already asleep, or just ignoring the phone. Only one person would call her at such an hour, and tonight she might just feel like letting him stew in his alcoholic haze. Then, there was a click.

 _*Hello?*_

"Heeyyyy, lieutenant. How're things?"

Her pause, and the tone of voice she answered with, should have been setting off all kinds of warning bells in his head. Currently his head was too drowsy and slow to care.

 _*You need someone to pick you up.*_

It wasn't a question.

"They won't let me leave unless someone's here to take care of me."

She was silent for a few seconds, and he found a thread on his coat to unravel while he waited.

 _*Can you stay on the line while I get ready? I don't want you to collapse before I'm on my way over.*_

"I can do that."

He closed his eyes and let his head lean against the wall of the building, loosely holding the phone to his ear. He could easily imagine her setting down the instrument, walking over to her room to put on a sweater and some shoes. She wouldn't bother putting on a bra. He hummed into the mouthpiece.

"I could've called Havoc, I guess, but he's probably more wasted than I am at some other bar," he mumbled. "Plus, he'd never stop giving me shit for it."

She couldn't hear him. He was being an idiot. Now she was probably pulling her hair into its clip, and a few strands would slip out to curl around her ears and the nape of her neck.

"Thanks for doing this, Ri—lieutenant."

He couldn't even say her name when he was blind drunk and knew she couldn't hear him. The small part of him still clinging to professionalism must be stronger than he thought.

Now she was patting Black Hayate's head, letting him know she'd be back soon.

"It's awful of me to drag you out like this just to pick me up, but I guess I'm used to it by now. You keep picking me up and dusting me off…"

Now she would take her bag from the table, checking that her key was inside.

"And maybe that's why I love you. What do you think, lieutenant?"

He laughed at himself. Asking questions to a dead phone line. It made him think, ever so briefly, of the night Hughes had called him.

Now she would walk back to the phone, picking it up to make sure he was still there. He waited for her to ask him a question—yell at him, maybe. No, she wouldn't yell at him, he was pretty sure of that. He _did_ hear something—it might have been static, but it also sounded like a gasp. Moments later, her voice came through to him, wavering slightly on the first syllable. Might have been a bad connection.

 _*You still there? Colonel?*_

"Mustang reporting for duty."

 _*I'll be there in five minutes. Try not to pass out, sir.*_

"Don't worry about me, lieutenant."

The line clicked again, and he reluctantly pushed himself away from the wall to seek out a chair until his rescuer arrived.

* * *

His mouth was filled with sand and something else bad-tasting. The sunlight lancing through the thin skin of his eyelids felt like it might splinter his head apart from the inside.

"Hhhhnnggg."

Footsteps approached where he lay, as he fought to keep his stomach from rolling.

"I see you're awake."

She didn't speak loudly, but the slight vibrations in the silence reverberated like a gong between his temples.

"Unfortunately," he groaned.

She made a "hmm"-ing sound, and when he was able to unstick his eyelids, he saw her standing with two cups of coffee. From the scent, it was dark and extraordinarily strong. He was lying on her couch, and Black Hayate was standing up against the side to try and sniff his toes.

He dragged a hand over his eyes and—very slowly—sat up.

"Thanks."

He took the cup from her and watched her move around the apartment, getting ready for the day. She was wearing a loose, long-sleeved shirt and black pants, and he glanced down at his own situation, grimacing at the sticky state of his shirt. His center of balance shifted unpleasantly, and he shut his eyes.

 **Maybe that's why I love you.**

His eyes shot open again.

 _Shit._

He heard her moving around in her bedroom, and then she appeared again in her doorway. She gave him an appraising glance.

"Is the coffee helping?"

He hadn't tried it yet, so he sucked in a scalding mouthful and nearly screamed. He nodded stiffly instead, and hoped she wouldn't notice the tears that had sprung to the corners of his eyes.

Every second was bringing him more memories of what he had been like last night. Mumbling nonsense over the phone…her slinging his arm over her shoulder as she half dragged him outside the building…him insisting in garbled confusion that he couldn't bother her by crashing at her place…and finally letting himself be persuaded to sleep on her couch for the remainder of the night. When she had thrown a blanket over him, he had caught a whiff of whatever shampoo she used. Her hair had still been slightly damp from a shower, and he fell asleep with that scent carrying into his dreams.

Setting the cup down on the table next to the couch, he rubbed a forearm across his sore eyes. All he could do was hope that she hadn't been close enough to the earpiece of her telephone to hear his slurred confession.

"I can drive you home once I'm ready," she called from one room over.

He had already caused _so_ much damage.

"No, it's fine. I'll walk back."

She came into the living room again, eyebrows drawn upward. Now he saw the gray shadows under her eyes, and a wave of shame hit him. Her skepticism was obvious, so he wove some persuasion into his tone.

"Really. The walk will do me good."

She pinned him with her signature stare. He didn't look away, and eventually decided there was nothing different in the way she addressed him, or in the mood of her eyes. Well…maybe _something_ was different, but it might have just been her exhaustion. The extra lines on her forehead could also be chalked up to not getting quite enough rest.

She nodded slowly.

"If you're sure."

He gathered his coat from where it had fallen to the floor and ran one hand through his messy hair.

"I am."

On his way out the door, he said quietly, "Thanks, Hawkeye."

Maybe she would hear the words that were missing from his goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don't even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy._

* * *

Secret moments slipped over them while they hid in abandoned rooms, shadowy hallways—when they were brave, even the moonlit garden. It was the only forbidden thing in his life as the emperor, and he couldn't keep himself from admitting that the danger was thrilling.

For her, the danger was often much more real than the excitement. She would cling to statements like: "this is the last time," or "we shouldn't do this," or, when she wanted to see his eyes glitter with anger, "I am unworthy." The excuses fell off her tongue with little weight, and he swallowed them hungrily, anxious to draw nothing but sounds of happiness from her.

This evening, he gathered all his calm after a long and exceptionally frustrating denial of yet another prestigious offer of marriage, and the _qi_ of the room died down as every last person paid their respects and left. The silence was heaven, and he could feel her presence swirling behind him—nearly imperceptible, like it was his own shadow.

"I almost didn't feel you there, Lan Fan."

Her silent footsteps brought her to his side. He turned his face slightly towards her. Enough to see she was still wearing her mask.

"What do you think? Should I form a powerful alliance by offering my love to a princess?"

Anyone but him wouldn't have been able to see the flicker of emotion in her eyes.

"The emperor's questions are for his advisors, not his guardsmen."

He stood up without answering her, and she dissolved into the darkness again as he made his way out of the huge chamber into the next hallway. Several minutes later, when he had found his way to a room in the most deserted part of the royal palace, he spoke to the emptiness again.

"The emperor's question is for his lover. Not for his advisors _or_ his guardsmen."

He searched for her breath in the silence, and finally found it: nervous, chaotic, the first signal that she would allow her mask to come off and let them really see each other.

"Lan Fan."

She brought herself into the half-light of the empty room, still mostly guarded in shadow. The setting sun's rays crossed between them. He stepped towards her, and to his pleasure, she didn't back away.

Reaching out and tapping the edge of her mask with one finger, he asked a silent question. She slowly reached behind her head to untie the strings. The mask came away in his hand, and he let it fall—she winced when it hit the floor, as if the small sound had been a gunshot. He was so close that his exhale moved the hair against her forehead, and he spoke again, although it sounded more like a growl to both of them.

"Do you think I should be with someone else?"

Her eyes flickered up to his when she answered:

"The country of Xing would be filled with joy if the emperor were to find a suitable partner."

So, she wanted to walk the razor's edge. Well, he would play along. His strong fingers shot out and forced her to tilt her face upward.

"I'm not interested in what the _country of Xing_ has to say about anything."

Her lips twitched, and once again he cursed himself for falling so quickly into whatever enchantment she had cast around him. Whether intentionally or by accident, the masked bodyguard had the most powerful man in Xing wrapped around her littlest _kunai_.

"If his holiness is asking _this one_ …" she lifted one hand to brush the wrist that still held her head steady, "…she would say that such an alliance might not be wise."

"Oh?" He bent every effort on calming the blood racing in his ears.

"If the emperor plans on ignoring the traditional harem, then he must fully—"

Her eyes fluttered closed as he bent towards her, letting his breath skim over her pulse.

"—f-fully consider the options. Rushing into an imprudent marriage might be—"

Her breath caught and held as he closed the millimeters between them, brushing his lips over her jaw. He paused when her sentence remained unfinished.

"Might be _what_ , Lan Fan?"

Her fingers strangled his grasp on her chin. She finally breathed out: "…it-it might be…disastrous."

He chuckled into her neck.

"My thoughts exactly."

All pretense of gentleness and decorum fled with the pressure of her body against his. He walked her backwards to the wall, coaxing her lips open for him and smiling against her when she made one of those desperate sounds that he swore could bring a god to its knees. They helped each other off with their respective clothes: her dark, practical attire heavy-loaded with weapons, and his loose, colorful robes that slipped through her flesh fingers like water.

The reckless secrecy that accompanied their every tryst heated up the air in the room until he thought he couldn't stand it anymore—he needed this, he needed _her_ , for every moment until the light of his holy reign extinguished. Her flesh fingers scorched a path up his back and shoulders, the automail digging in with a faint bite. He always waited for the moment when her instincts betrayed propriety, and she started making her own demands.

With each blinding thrust he caught his name repeated in her voice, over and over like some ancient spell that might make her immortal. She pushed her knuckles into her mouth so her cries wouldn't bring someone down on them, but he dragged her hand away, replacing it with his tongue, his lips. The words slipped from him moments before he lunged into the void, and all he saw were her eyes widen just a fraction, her fingers clench involuntarily where they were locked into his hair.

When they could speak again, he knew she wouldn't mention it. She might even try to pretend he hadn't said it. She might think they could keep pretending this was something that could be stopped, like they weren't clinging to a boulder headed straight for a cliff.

He ran a hand over her hair, down her neck, over the automail arm that was still clinging to him, and he knew his need for her would forever be woven into his need to say those words again. Not as a breathless spasm, or even as a whispered endearment in private. If he could have thrown open a door to the heavens and shouted them, he would have. But for the time, he kissed the top of her head. She could try to forget what had changed, but he never would.


	3. Chapter 3

_Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that's what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you've always known._

* * *

When she saw him at the far end of the room, her expression cycled through anticipation, to joy, and settled on intense confusion. He nervously adjusted his collar and gave her a small wave. She walked over to the table, her eyes widening as she took in the sight. He stood up to pull her chair out for her when she approached.

"You look beautiful, Izumi."

And she really did. Her knee-length dress was not as exotic or expensive as what some of the other restaurant patrons wore, but somehow it illuminated her skin, lit up the irises of her eyes in a way that made his breath catch.

She was still processing his appearance.

"You-you look…"

After she sat down across from him, she contemplated his attire while tapping her chin with one finger.

"You look uncomfortable."

He coughed. It was painfully obvious that the rented tuxedo may have been one or two sizes too small for him. Earlier, he thought he might have given the owner of the store an aneurysm when his height had required him to physically duck through the doorway. The incident hadn't done much to build up his confidence.

He watched her take a sip from her glass of water, and once again marveled at how easily she fit in to her surroundings. She had brawled with Briggs men in the dead of winter, killed a live bear with the power of her pinkie finger, and yet somehow she looked just as at home in the upscale establishment as she did in the middle of a bar fight.

 _He_ , on the other hand, was afraid to move a muscle for fear of sending the fine china towards the chandelier.

Suddenly remembering the bouquet he had placed beneath the table, he brought it out to hand across to her.

"I got these for you."

Some of the petals were already crumpling, but the bouquet itself was passable: a dozen red roses. That was important, for some reason. No more or less than twelve, and nothing but roses would do.

When she took them, she looked as flabbergasted as if he'd offered her a live electric eel. But she still took them, and gave him a huge smile when she had recovered herself. The smile gave him enough courage to reach for her hand where it rested on the tabletop.

Her fingers wound through his fearlessly, and both of them opened their mouths to speak at the same time.

"Uh. You go first," he stuttered, feeling his cheeks start to burn.

This wasn't going at all like he had planned. Why did his hands feel so cold and shaky?

"What is all this, Sig?" she questioned him, gesturing with her head towards the elegantly dressed waitstaff, the ill-fitting tuxedo, the rapidly wilting bouquet of roses.

It was all so foreign—it just wasn't _them._ He realized that this moment might be beautiful in its own way, but it wasn't a part of the grand illusion he'd tried to construct for her.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to try and survive the evening without causing any more awkwardness. He cleared his throat and drummed up a convincing explanation:

"I just thought it would be something different for us. A chance to dress up."

He glanced appreciatively at the dress she wore, how it clung to her figure, and she flushed slightly.

"I guess that could be nice…but what made you think of it?"

Swallowing hard, he shrugged in an effort to be nonchalant.

"Sig, tell me what's really going on."

Looking into her face, he saw a little of what sent the Briggs men running like scared kittens back to their commander. She really knew how to wring the truth out of a man. Then, her face softened, and she squeezed his hand in both of hers.

"Please?"

His tongue was thick and heavy. If he couldn't talk, then he couldn't explain himself, and he didn't even want to think about the various ways she could persuade him to give up his secret.

"Well…" he began. She nodded encouragingly.

"I-Izumi, I…"

His eyes darted between the bouquet, her face, the simpering waiter rapidly approaching their table, and felt himself breaking into a visible sweat. She stared at him for a couple more seconds before something clicked behind her eyes.

He gawked at her as she began giggling, barely suppressing her mirth behind one hand as realization dawned on her. Catching her breath, she gifted him with another dazzling smile as she asked:

"Would it be okay with you if we got out of here for a bit?"

He stood up so fast he nearly knocked his chair over, and the two of them rushed past the bemused waiter into the warm spring evening.

"We had a lovely time!" she called back over her shoulder to the host, as fifty pairs of eyes followed them out of the restaurant.

* * *

Two hours later, after a long, private, _perfect_ walk, he had communicated to her everything she needed to know. The words that had gotten in his way before came only second to the glow of her smile, the softness of her hand in his, the quiet joy that filled his every moment with her. Maybe it hadn't gone according to plan, but she understood him too well to let him stumble over himself trying to put into words something they both carried in their bones.

And, in the end, it was exactly what should have happened. She kissed him goodnight with one hand pressed against his chest, and he was about to think he had died and gone to heaven when…

"Why on earth is your shirt sticky?!"

Then, he remembered the chocolates hidden in his inside coat pocket.


	4. Chapter 4

_Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you've counted the space between her breaths and are certain she's asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering._

* * *

The house still smelled faintly like strawberries, and quiche, and something else that he couldn't find any other word for except "Gracia." The moonlight peeked through the curtains and turned her hair silvery white, and kissed her fingers where they were snugly intertwined with their daughter's.

It was very quiet; he guessed it must be close to three in the morning, and he walked softly into the room so he wouldn't disturb either of them. Elicia's soft, quick breaths and his wife's slower, quieter inhales were the only discernible sounds.

He took a moment to look at them, and for a few seconds, everything was still perfect. This was how they slept when they knew he would come home very late, or if he had told them that he might have to stay overnight at Central Command. That way, neither of them would have to stay up, waiting alone for him to come home.

Gracia sighed, and turned her head just a little bit towards where he stood, observing the tranquil scene. He waited, quiet as a ghost, until she settled again, hugging the girl a little more tightly in her unconscious movements.

They were both too deep in slumber to hear anything when he walked closer to them, crouching down to pull the covers slightly up over Elicia's shoulder, to smooth a faint wrinkle from his wife's forehead. A sharp pain hit him when he saw the fresh tear tracks on her face. Kissing her forehead, he felt how cold his lips were against her living skin, and even though he knew she wouldn't wake, he had to say goodbye.

Her hair was soft in his fingers as he murmured:

"I'm sorry."

Her brow furrowed again, and then she made a small, grieving sound that squeezed his heart.

"Maes…" she breathed his name into the night air. If he could have cried at that moment, he would have.

"I'm so sorry. I love you."

He whispered it to both of them.

Then the room was silent again, the night wind rustling the curtains and stealing the echo from his farewell.


	5. Chapter 5

_Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on "in that shirt" or "when you make your award-winning meatballs" or, if you are feeling particularly brave, "when we do this." Resume dancing and pretend you don't feel her eyes on you the rest of the night._

* * *

Why did their best intentions always end up causing some sort of disaster? He surveyed the damage that had at one point started out as an innocent effort to do some housecleaning. The floor was slippery with soap and cold water, the mop that had originally been an instrument of order now brandished in Rebecca's practiced grip.

"Are you ready to throw down the gauntlet?" she questioned, obviously sure of her victory.

She was breathing hard, the tiny curling hairs around her forehead sticking to her flushed face from both exertion and the water they had managed to fling everywhere. Her eyes were lit up with a roguish sparkle, and her grinning expression fell somewhere between a challenge and an invitation. She was glorious.

He _had_ to vanquish her.

He was at an undeniable disadvantage—the dustpan in his right hand wasn't as formidable a weapon as the mop she was now twirling recklessly like a giant baton.

"You may have the upper hand now, but the tables are gonna turn!"

He charged her with the dustpan held high, and she darted to his left, trying to block him with the handle of the mop. Her foot landed directly in one of the myriad puddles, and with a scream, she slid ungracefully to the ground, catching one of his sleeves and pulling him down on top of her in a tangle of limbs, hair, and wet clothes.

Groaning, he lifted his weight off of her, but could still feel her hectic giggles vibrating through his body.

"Dammit, did you have to shatter my eardrums? The bruising I can handle, but your scream could have deafened me."

She socked his shoulder, none too gently.

"Says the huge guy who just landed squarely on top of me. I may have a collapsed lung!"

"I seriously doubt it. It would take more than my weight to crush those pipes of yours."

She laughed again, and pounded his chest ineffectually.

"Please let me get up so I can beat you! I know I can."

"Well, you'll regret it. But I can't resist a challenge."

Especially when the challenger had one of the most insane racks he'd ever seen. And he'd dated the physical incarnation of Lust.

He pushed himself off the wet floor and offered her a hand to pull herself upright. She brushed off her backside and reached down for the mop, which she had dropped during her fall. He watched her clamber to her feet, and tried to ignore the strange tug in his chest that pulled a little harder each time she looked at him.

Turning her head to grin over her shoulder at him, she suddenly looked confused at his expression.

"Why the weird face?" she asked, her tone nearly serious.

He was about to say something about how her white shirt had become so drenched in water it was nearly transparent, or maybe some other quip regarding her being "soaking wet," but none of that came out of his mouth.

Instead, he heard himself say:

"I love you."

Her mouth froze in a perfect "o." Immediately panicking, he cast around for an exit.

"…Uh…when you lose to me!"

 _Lame. So,_ so _lame._

Her smile came back, but something in her eyes made him think that she saw straight through his hasty deception. After a brief pause, she let the moment slip by and flashed that intoxicating smirk in his direction again.

"Well, too bad, because it _won't_ happen again!"

She prodded him with the end of the mop to punctuate her declaration. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, and he would have done just about anything to avoid what could have become one of the most awkward conversations of his life.

"You wanna bet?" he questioned, catching the end of the mop and dragging her in towards him, trapping the handle under his elbow. She slammed into his chest and he felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. She tried to pull away from him and reclaim her weapon, but his other arm wrapped around her waist and kept her prisoner against his body.

Looking down at the top of her head, he could practically hear the gears turning in her mind—she was still thinking about what he had let slip. But maybe they could both push it aside for the time being. For the sake of their battle, if nothing else.

"Looks like you're out of options, Catalina," he gloated, rubbing in his second victory of the evening.

She looked him square in the eyes, quirking one mischievous eyebrow.

"Rematch?"


	6. Chapter 6

_Write her a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy's. Debate where to leave it all day—on her pillow? In her coat pocket? Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face up in the trashcan, her name scrawled on the front in your sloppy handwriting. Let her wonder if you meant it._

* * *

He wasn't exactly world-renowned for his skill with words, and he would _never_ have considered himself a poet, but still…writing one little letter should not be this hard.

 **Dear Winry,**

His pen scratched through the paper, leaving a jagged tear that felt morbidly appropriate to his thwarted purpose.

 _Dear Winry._

It seemed so formal. Maybe like something Major Armstrong would begin with…

Shuddering, he shook the thought out of his head. He tore apart the slip of paper, blank except for those two words, and grabbed another one. Better to be simple than pretentious, he thought.

 **Winry,**

 **I just wanted to let you know**

—that he _what?_ That he felt his throat close up every time she stood close to him? That he counted up the number of times something he said or did put a smile on her face? That if anyone made her cry, he would punch them into the next dimension?

Every time he tried to force the right words between his teeth, something always happened to imprison him in silence again. It could be something as simple as Pinako walking into the room at an inconvenient moment—couldn't the hag lift her ever-watchful eye from them for _one damn second?_ —or, as was the most recent interruption, the mechanic would be called away to an oh-so-important and extremely urgent customer in Rush Valley, whom Garfiel insisted over the phone, would have no one but Winry Rockbell near their precious automail.

She was busy all the time, which wasn't in the least bit surprising to him. She managed to make herself indispensable wherever she went. She was popular with her clients. And talented beyond belief. And beautiful—so, _so_ beautiful. Therefore, she was in constant, frustrating demand that kept him teetering on the verge of ripping his hair out. It also pushed one intrusive question to the front of his brain: could she _really_ want him?

He heard Alphonse in his head: "Of _course_ she does, brother, she's obviously been yours for half her life—everyone else can see it, so why can't you?"

Rolling his eyes at the naive optimism exhibited by his internal Al, he considered that her behavior towards him conveyed the same enthusiastic goodwill and selfless energy that she directed towards everyone else. The glaring exception, of course, being when she offered to rearrange the contents of his cranium with her wrench. Fortunately, that happened a lot less often now that he was no longer in the habit of bringing his automail back in a mangled, rusty heap.

Above anything, he didn't want a repetition of that _particular_ experience when he tried to let her know how he really felt. This all would be so much easier if Al were here to guide him through the maze of vocabulary that bound him from putting those three, suicidal little words on paper.

He had to start somewhere, though, and he had promised himself that he wouldn't move until he had something perfect to give to her. Something that would make concrete his desire to give her everything that she had never asked of him, but everything he wanted to make sure was hers.

It would hardly be an easy task.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed the second sheet of paper off the desk and into the waste bin. This was going to take the entire night.

* * *

She knocked gently on the door, which swung quietly inwards at her touch. A long evening working on a rush order had kept her in the shop until well past midnight, and when she climbed the stairs to her bed, she was mildly surprised to see the glow of lamplight in his room. Maybe he was up late too—probably working on something he had started during his trip. She only wanted to say a quick good night.

At least, that's what she firmly told herself.

"…Ed?"

His soft snore greeted her, and she pushed the door all the way open to see that he was slumped over the desk, head cushioned on his left hand and the other still loosely holding a pen, which was dripping profusely over the paper resting on the desk's surface.

It could have been another page of a research journal. But as she got closer, it looked to her more like the first draft of a letter…to Alphonse, maybe? The two corresponded regularly, but Winry could have sworn he'd sent off the most recent missive to his younger brother just three days previously. Perhaps he'd had a breakthrough, and couldn't wait for a response to start describing the details to his faraway research partner.

Sighing, she stepped silently over to the bed and grabbed the throw blanket from the foot. She was used to taking care of him when the typical Elric workaholism overtook his physiological demands.

She draped the blanket around his shoulders and tucked it around his neck, letting her fingers wind through his long ponytail. She really ought to trim it up one of these days, even though he would complain and loudly worry about her touching it with scissors.

Her eyes drifted from the back of his golden head to the hand grasping the pen. It would leak through the paper and onto the desk if it kept dripping like that, so she began to slide it out of his fingers, when at once her eye caught the letters of her own name at the top of the page. She didn't mean to invade his privacy, but if it was really addressed to her…

Leaning slightly over his shoulder, she read the first few lines, and froze.

 _A recipe for apple pie? Really?_

There were only so many different ways you could put apples and sugar together, she thought. Had he really found a combination so entrancing that he was writing the recipe down in the middle of the night for her benefit? She couldn't help but find it a little underwhelming.

There was a weird little circle under the "i" in the word "pie," though. It didn't look like a drip from the pen. And another one under the "l" in "apples," on the next line. The "o" in flour. The "v" in oven.

She sucked in a harsh breath, and found the rest of the marked letters sprinkled throughout the rest of the directions.

Only an alchemist, Winry decided, would encode such a simple statement in a recipe, and only Ed would do it in such an unapologetically cheesy way.

She couldn't decide if he had meant to actually give her the recipe, or if it was going to join its fellows in the stack of rejects toppling over the rim of the waste basket, but she didn't really care. He had already told her everything she needed to hear, even before she ever looked at that recipe.

She bent down to drop a feather-light kiss on the upturned side of his face before she left him to his fitful sleep.

"You know I love you too, alchemy freak."


	7. Chapter 7

_Wait until something terrible has happened and you can't not tell her anymore. Wait until she almost gets hit by a car crossing Wabash against the light and after you are done cursing at the shit-for-brains cab drivers in this city, realize you are actually just terrified of living without her. Tell her with your hands shaking._

* * *

Of course, he understood that being part of the royal family of Xing was dangerous. Of course, he had seen her survive—and, in fact had survived himself—much worse incidents than the efforts of a half-crazed assassin.

Still, it had been close. Much, _much_ closer than he would have liked.

He saw the silver flash right under his nose—later he would have a few very strong words with the princess's personal guards as to how exactly this lunatic managed to infiltrate their very ranks—and he nearly leaped in front of her, ready to protect her life with his own body. It was hard to lose this habit, the instinct to use himself as a metal shield for people in danger. Now, he usually remembered in time before doing something that would harm his re-obtained flesh and blood.

However, when she was at risk, his own welfare couldn't have mattered less.

Her armed escort, though admittedly caught by surprise, sprang to attention and intercepted the death blow. The man was dragged into custody, screaming about "fraternizations with dirty Amestrians," and something about tarnishing the holy emperor's reign with blatant disrespect and carnal lust. The incoherent screams subsided after too many minutes, and the silence rang in his ears like a panicked alarm bell.

It took a gentle squeeze of his elbow and her voice murmuring his name for him to realize that he might be crushing her. He hadn't anticipated his movements, and even after the moment was safe again, he didn't think he was capable of letting her go.

"Alphonse?"

She blinked up at him, and with his own face tipped downwards, the difference in their respective height was especially pronounced. Although she wasn't quite as tiny as when they first met, he felt she was still too small to carry so much responsibility. How could anyone ever want to hurt her when she barely seemed bigger than the tiny panda that was always perched on her shoulder?

Her smooth forehead creased with tiny, worried lines as her gaze locked with his, and to his enormous dismay he felt a sharp prickle at the corner of his eyes. _That_ was another sensation he was still getting used to, and occasionally had a hard time controlling. Well, he had to make up for those years somehow.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, reaching her small fingers up to brush away the first salty drop that slid down his nose.

He should say yes, apologize, and release her, but for some reason his arms refused to move.

When he opened his mouth, something else came out entirely. Something they had both danced around and tacitly acknowledged, but there had never seemed a "right" time to make known in so many words.

She stared. Then, as if her mind was slowly catching up with what her ears had told her, she took in a long, slow breath.

He wasn't getting enough air. That was the only explanation for why the entire world seemed to be spinning. As long as she stayed silent, everything tipped on an unseen axis that hinged solely on her response.

Finally, she smiled, and the ground righted itself again. Her tinkling laughter sent a brilliant shade of red into his cheeks, although he was reasonably sure she was too kind to laugh at him outright.

"It took an assassination attempt for you to tell me that?" she giggled, hugging him tightly around his waist and resting the side of her face against his chest.

He was about to protest, before he realized she was just teasing him—trying to lift his spirits after the close call they'd both witnessed, and so he wrapped his arms even more tightly around her.

Silently, he promised her that his flesh body would be just as effective as his metal one when it came to shielding and protecting her—though it was really more a promise to himself. As soon as the words were out—before then, even—it was clear to him that losing her just wasn't an option.


	8. Chapter 8

_Say it deliberately, your tongue a springboard for every syllable. Over coffee, brushing your teeth side-by-side, as you turn off the light to go to sleep—it doesn't matter where. Do not adorn it with extra words like "I think" or "I might." Do not sigh heavily as if admitting it were a burden instead of the most joyous thing you've ever done. Look her in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that she will turn to you and say, "I love you too."_

* * *

He had wandered for so long that "human" had become just a word. After decades unraveling the separate lives inside his head, it was hard to tell the one he had actually lived from the ones that blasted into his consciousness, buckling his sanity under their combined miserable weight.

The first time she looked into his eyes, the reality of his humanness flickered under all that noise, and it floored him. She calmed the voices. She _saw_ him.

He never apologized to her for loving her. Maybe he should have, because being with him could not have been easy. But he just couldn't apologize for clinging to the one part of his life that made him able to call it a "life." She was an authentic, imperfect reminder of his own humanity.

If she ever wanted reassurance, it never showed in her eyes. It took him so long to put the words to the sensation, that he was sure she gave up any hope of getting him to admit it out loud.

No, it was certainly never easy for her, but being in love with her was the easiest thing he'd done in the centuries of guilt he'd survived. So easy, in fact, he doubted it had ever been his choice to begin with.

He sat at the table in their house, dreading the next time he'd have to get up and leave. Maybe saving the country could be someone else's job for a change.

She came to him with a cup of tea and a smile, which drew an answering stutter from the heart that had beat too many times.

"Leaving again?"

No bitterness. Just a hint of honest pain.

He had to say something that would give her an idea of how much he regretted leaving her alone. She had chosen him before he knew what that meant, but it still wasn't fair to her. When he looked into her eyes, lost for the correct words, there was a more profound glow in them. It pulled him in until there was no room for the voices to follow.

"Trisha, I love you."

Effortless. Especially considering it had taken him several lifetimes to be able to say it to anyone.

She took his hand from where it hung limply next to the chair, and gently placed it over the quick, second heartbeat in her belly.

"Silly man. We love you too."


End file.
